A Doomed Situation
by Outakurebecca
Summary: Arthur works the late shift at a London bar. He wonders why the same American shows up for hours every night. USUK
1. Chapter 1

/Why does he come here every day?/ Arthur wondered. The bar was closing up for the night, well, morning now. He had just finished cleaning the last of the tall glasses; the ones used for drowning sorrows slowly instead of gunning them down with shots. They clinked sleepily when he tucked them into their shelves.

/He/ was still camped out at a bar stool, not taking the hint that it was time for the customers to leave. Arthur sighed. The man stayed this late almost every day of the week. He would sit in the same spot and chat up whoever sat next to him. When the crowd thinned out, he resorted to messing around on his phone.

He didn't even drink that much. The most he'd ever ordered was two drinks a night. If he didn't draw in other customers with his chatter, it would have been bad business.

Even if his presence was annoying and meant Arthur had to work later, he didn't mind as much anymore. Something about the dim light glinting off his glasses or his bomber jacket hugging his strong shoulders was intriguing. No wonder people talked to him so much.

"Oi," Arthur finally broke the silence. What he said next should have been, 'We're closing,' or 'It's late, you should go,' but other words tumbled out instead.

"Would you like one last drink?"

The man looked up at Arthur and smiled brightly. "That'd be awesome," he admitted.

"So," Arthur continued while reassembling his mixing supplies. "What's got you down, chap?"

The man's eyes widened. "I didn't say there was anything wrong." His accent was clearly American.

"Please." Arthur calmly poured in a portion of alcohol to the blend. "No one comes to a bar as frequently as yourself if they aren't having /some/ kind of trouble."

"Do you really want to know?" The American leaned on the counter, resting his chin in one hand.

Arthur made a hrmf sound. "Why would I ask if I didn't?" He began to shake the beverage in its metal container. The sheen of the object reflected on the the glass bottles behind him.

The man looked thoughtfully out the window. The street outside the bar was devoid of anything worth looking at.

"I'm in love," the man said simply.

A surprised expression alighted on Arthur's face. He didn't even know this man's name, and he was ready to tell him something so personal?

"What's wrong with that?" Arthur asked. He unscrewed the top of the mixer and poured the drink into a fresh glass.

The man nodded his thanks when handed the drink. "It's… a doomed situation."

Arthur quirked an eyebrow. He was curious, despite himself.

"He doesn't even know my name," the man ran a hand through his hair and gave a shaky laugh.

Arthur leaned on his side if the counter, his expression serious. "You can't give up," he said. "They won't ever be a greater part of your life if you stop now."

The American gazed up at him. He hadn't touched his drink.

"Approach them," Arthur suggested. "Tell them your name. It's the start of a new day, might as well make use of it."

He straightened up and went to the register to ring up the man's tab. The American didn't say anything. Quite unusual.

"I don't mean to kick you out," Arthur explained, "but I have to get some rest."

The American nodded. He took his first and only sip of the drink Arthur had prepared for him and got up. He walked to the register and fumbled in his pockets for a credit card.

/That's odd,/ Arthur thought. /He usually pays in cash./

"I'll need a signature," Arthur said, sliding the card through the machine and handing it back.

"Sure thing," the American murmured and hunched over the receipt. It took him a bloody long time to sign it.

The man slid the thin paper across the counter. Their hands just barely touched when Arthur retrieved it.

Immediately the American's hands went into his pockets. He sauntered purposefully out the door, waving over his shoulder without turning back.

Arthur shook his head. The most interesting part of his job was people like him. He picked up the receipt. A messy note was scrawled in the margin by the signature. It read:

"Alfred F. Jones; now you know my name."

**americaengland from le tumblr is the original source of the art that inspired this, I believe. Check out their stuff, it's super awesome!**


	2. Chapter 2

Many of the regulars during Arthur's late shift were severely confused. What happened to their confident, laid-back bar tender? The nervous expression he had whenever a new customer strolled in was not like him at all. And was that disappointment in his eyes when he returned his stare to the glistening table top and the sparkling glasses? It was almost as if he were waiting for someone.

Arthur himself was also confused. He shouldn't be this flustered over a hasty note on a torn receipt. And he certainly shouldn't have it in his pocket. He'd meant to throw it away. He really had, but then the spotless glasses needed another cleaning or the nearly empty bar required his complete attention. He found himself staggeringly busy. Too busy to walk to the rubbish bin and throw the blasted thing away.

If only he were occupied enough to stop _thinking_.

The hours were lazy in passing, rudely unaware of Arthur's anxiousness. At last the final customers bid Arthur farewell. It seemed he would be closing up early tonight.

In part, Arthur was relieved. Alfred F. "Now you know my name" Jones hadn't made an appearance; he wouldn't have to deal with him and all the weirdness he felt when he thought of him. However, falsely imagining that someone loves you, even if it's less than a day, isn't a pleasant feeling at all.

If he doesn't come back, I'll be the one in a doomed situation, he thought dryly. A flat chuckle escaped him.

He picked up the freshly used glasses on the counter and began washing them. His thoughts would amble from thought to thought, very rarely visiting his current task. Whenever he got too close to thinking of Alfred, he would shake his head vigorously and clean the now sterile glass with extra ferocity.

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw the heavy door leading to the street open slightly, then fall back with a thump. The image of a brown bomber jacket and a blonde head blurred through the distorting glass of the front windows. Alfred was walking away.

The glass dropped out of Arthur's hands and landed with minimal damage on a washcloth in the sink.

That git, Arthur thought, scrambling to undo the simple latch of the short, swinging door that led to the customer side of the establishment. After a few seconds he gave up and hurdled it, landing a bit awkwardly on the other side. A few quick strides and he was out the door, his calculated steps dissolving into a run, driving irregular beats on the walk.

Quite sure that he was the perfect picture of a complete idiot, he stopped at a corner and looked frantically around. The intersection was cluttered with people and vehicles. Finding Alfred would be the equivalent of spotting Waldo in a moving picture. Arthur cursed quietly. The longer he looked, the less chance there was of finding him. He was about to give up when he noticed a figure standing beside him.

"Why so stressed?" asked a familiar American voice. Arthur looked up at Alfred and his wide, tentative grin.

"You came all this way and didn't stop to see me, wanker!" Arthur yelled over the noise of the street.

"I didn't think you'd want me too," Alfred admitted, running a hand through his hair and looking anywhere but at him. "You must think I'm a creep, pining after you like that."

"Don't be an idiot," Arthur told him sternly. "You had to start somewhere." The Brit shuffled his feet, feeling self conscious on the street in his work uniform. His nervousness had nothing to do with the American in front of him, what a ridiculous thought!

A hopeful look flickered in Alfred's face. "How about I get you a drink instead of the other way around?" he suggested.

"Like a date?" Arthur asked.

"Yeah," Alfred's childish grin returned in full force. "A date!"

Arthur nodded and looked down, but not fast enough to avoid Alfred's contagious smile. It tugged at the corners of his mouth like the love child of a tickle and an itch.

"You're too damn happy," he muttered.

Alfred beamed even more. "It don't think that's going to change any time soon."


End file.
